A Creature of Habit
by O Wild West Wind
Summary: When Fiyero decides to give class attendance a try, he realizes that it's actually not all that bad—with a few bumps along the way. Fiyeraba flirting, two-shot. Very mild language; it's all in Fiyero's head, after all.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I'm baaaaack!**

**No, I did not fall off the edge of the planet. No, I did not get sucked up by a tornado and transported to another world. No, I did not get falsely labeled as evil by my government and forced to live as a fugitive in the forest for years. But I did have lots of finals, which is almost the same thing. :P **

**Anywayyyy, this story idea may or may not have been stolen from a tumblr post about Harry Potter- I immediately thought "FIYERO" when I read it and have been itching to write something about it ever since. (Linking tumblr posts seems to be impossible right now but you can find what I mean at url fiyerooooo dot tumblr dot com /****post/89770757168**) (wow that's my blog wow) Disclaimer: I own neither that post nor Wicked, so this is basically completely unoriginal. But the writing is mine, so that's something.

**This is gonna be a two-shot, but I won't be able to update it for at least a couple of days since I'm away. But don't worry-it'll be done someday. I hope.  
**

**Okay, I'm done talking, I swear. Now sit back, relax, and enjoy the story!**

* * *

He wasn't sure how it all started, really.

It might have been out of true affection, or a budding love; it might have been some honest curiosity towards that enigma of a girl; maybe, quite possibly, it was just one of his dumb Fiyero-esque quirks. But regardless of how it began, it was definitely habit by now.

It all began on a Thursday. That much he did know—it was a Thursday morning, and he, out of some strange and newfound inspiration, was in class on time that day. So on time, in fact, that he was preceded only by the green girl herself, save the small crowd of punctual procrastinators hastily comparing answers in the back. He moseyed on in, basking in the strange aura of a near-empty classroom, and plopped his bag on the seat to her right. This earned an eyebrow raise; he shrugged it off. She had obviously just arrived herself, for she was still pulling out books and supplies, and sorting through a set of color coded notebooks and folders. _How much more organized could a person be?_ He grabbed a pen and paper, just to blend in a little, and stretched out into his chair. Just as he was suppressing a yawn, she decided to state the obvious.

"You're here early."

"I know."

She looked down, straightened her things, and chose to speak again. "What made you decide that now was a good time to come to class?"

"Oh, I don't know." He flourished his hand. "I guess it's just a burst of inspiration—might as well get my money's worth while I'm here, right?"

She looked a bit disappointed; she probably wanted him to quote some treatise on the joys of education. Well, he was only being honest. Or _more_ honest, at least. This induced silence for a few moments, and he got antsy. He hated silence when other people were around. He might get caught _thinking_.

"So..." Pause. "What did you do today?"

"Why?"

"Just curious." And just making conversation.

"I still don't understand."

Understand? What was there to—_she probably isn't used to people just coming up and making small talk on a whim like this, man. Cut her some slack._ Oh. Well, time to shake things up a bit for her, then.

"It's what people do when they wanna get to know each other. For example, today I whacked my head real bad on the wall when I woke up. I think there's a bump right here, see—probably the reason I'm in class right now. Maybe it knocked some sense into me."

She was laughing a little, and he was made aware of how brightly her teeth contrasted with her skin. He decided that he liked to make her laugh; she looked so innocent that way.

And then, as abrupt as the ungainly head-whack that woke him up that morning, the teacher walked in and her attention was lost. Seriously, it was like this girl was _so_ focused that it looped around and unfocused her from the important things. Like fun. And conversation. But he endured, and, with a valiant effort, genuinely tried to pay attention once class began.

_Oh, yeah, I know what that word means. Okay. This won't be so bad._ There was some movement in the corner of his eye—probably some moth or fly or something—but he controlled himself. _Keep focused. Find your inner Elphaba_. He looked over at her; she was writing something down. _Whoa there, he hasn't even said what we're doing today yet. What are you writing?_ A subtle side glance. _The Battle of...what is that? Is that really what we're learning about? _He squinted. _What class even is this?_

Okay, so paying attention wasn't working. But at least he couldn't say he didn't try. He started tapping his pen to pass the time, trying to copy the rhythm of some song he had recently heard. _A little slower, and a triplet there and..._a death glare from the green girl. _Okay, no drumming in the classroom._ But really, what would he do for the next two hours? Just sit and stare?

He decided to try just that for a while, but his vision was fogging a little too much for his liking. After all, what would Elphaba say if he started drooling all over her study guides? So the natural course of action was, of course, to doodle—a subject of which, had it been a class in itself, he would have excelled.

He decided to try it for a while, but his vision was fogging a little too much for his liking. After all, what would Elphaba say if he started drooling all over her study guides? So the natural course of action was, of course, to doodle-a subject of which, had it been a class in itself, he would have excelled.

He started off with a little sketch of the professor himself. It wasn't quite right, though; he needed something supplemental. Like a giant dragon to sit on—yes, that was it. And maybe with some magic beams glowing out of his eyes. And who were they fighting? Some bad-ass superhero, no doubt. He started penciling in some base lines to outline the head, and later the mouth. And a fierce pair of eyebrows. A hero couldn't exist without them. This was satisfactory, wasn't it? So good, in fact, it looked just like the girl sitting on his-o_h, shoot, she'll hate me if she sees this_. He hastily flipped his notebook and scribbled something down to look more inconspicuous.

Then, as a timely distraction, there was a sudden shift in the vibes of the room. What was going on? _That old drone stopped talking, that's what._ He looked around a bit; a few people had contorted their faces, probably puzzling something out. One had his hands to his temple; another was asleep. _Props to you, man._ He turned to Elphaba, who seemed to have won an internal debate, eyes thoroughly gleaming. _Brainiac._ She shot up her hand.

Fiyero couldn't say why he did what he did—but he couldn't say why he did most things, anyway. Whatever the case, he was suddenly high-fiving her outstretched hand, smirking with that classic smirk that never quite seemed to leave his face.

"You got this, Elphaba!"

A few people giggled, and the teacher was fuming. Nothing, however, compared to the look on the green girl's face. She was utterly dumbfounded, the poor soul—there was a subtle blush on her cheeks and her mouth hung slightly agape, and her arm was still raised partway above her head. It must've occurred to her how strange that looked, for she quickly dropped her hand back down to her lap; her eyes, however never left his own face. Something was buzzing in his ear—probably the sniveling professor coming up with whatever punishment he thought due. Not like that mattered. He tuned it out and battled his guilt instead, still a bit unsure as to what she was thinking. The next words he bothered to comprehend came from her, as she finally managed to wrest her face away from him and back to the apologetic drone. He must have applied for the answer once more; she clasped her hands and furrowed her brow.

"I'm sorry, professor, I...I forgot. Could you repeat the question?"

A few students giggled again, and she blushed a deeper shade of mauve. It contrasted quite nicely with the green, like a bright painting with pastel undertones. _Maybe I should embarrass her more often._ Regardless, that guilt still nipped at him, and he did the only thing he could think of to do: apologize.

_"Sorry."_ It was in a speech bubble, drawn above a cartoon sketch of himself. She barely glanced at it before she pushed it aside with a huff, and he frowned. _Back to the drawing board._ He pushed it back, with a few flowers doodled inside his hands. _"Sorry. You were just way more interesting than this guy."_ When she read it, he pursed his lips and haughtily raised his head in a terrible impression of the teacher; she rolled her eyes, but he could swear he saw the hint of a smile.

"Master Tiggular!" _Oh, sweet Oz._ "I have told you once, and I will not tell you again—no distracting my students! You are dismissed from this room for the rest of class. Leave!"

So this is what he got for trying. _Well, maybe you deserve it, dumb-ass. _He'd ignore that voice for now. It wasn't worth disputing; he shrugged his shoulders, picked up his things, and left. But not without a quick wink in her direction, just to lead her on a bit. _Wait, lead her on? Did he—_no, that required too much thought right now. He took one last glance before he left; she seemed to be torn between trademark glare of daggers and actually laughing at his antics, and had settled for biting her lip, blushing just a smidgen more. She looked almost..._pretty_ like that. _Huh. Who knew._ She turned to look after him before he was gone, and did not expect him to be looking back. He smiled a little, and she just spun straight around, putting her pen frantically back to paper.

The door clicked behind him; he didn't care about being kicked out of class, since it wasn't anything new. But something felt different today, and that something wasn't unpleasant. Was he just feeling extra rebellious? _Nah, it's just Elphaba._ He laughed a little. This whole going to class thing—it actually wasn't that bad. Maybe he'd make it a habit of his. And the high-fiving? No longer guilty; it was decided. He'd definitely have to do it more often.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Here it is- the second half of my story! :D**

**I'd like to...apologize? Make it understood? Tell you to suck it up and deal with it? that I have a habit of my own of delving into everybody's head while writing. Pretty much every one of my stories is evidence of that...I am less plot driven and more thought driven. I guess point of view just fascinates me, and that's why I like Wicked so much-it's a story revolving around POV. Anywayyy, I just wanted to say that so some of you lovely readers aren't like "where's the action this is so boring ughhh" and throw virtual tomatoes for my lack of focus on plot. I do hope, though, that some of you share my strange addiction to the brains of the wicked and brainless, and if so-I'm here for ya!**

**Now, without further ado, I shut up and let the characters (Disclaimer: they are not mine, no matter how much I cry over them and scream MY BABIES at their struggles) do the talking.**

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He wasn't sure if this all started deliberately, or if it stemmed from some subconscious driving force to prove himself, or if he had, quite simply, gone mad.

But regardless of how it began, it was definitely habit by now.

He entered the classroom neither early nor late, making his way directly to his usual seat in the front row. A few people were already there waiting for him; it was funny how seats popularized depending on the people sitting in them. It was nothing but an inconvenience, really—it proved difficult to pay attention when some uppity girl started twittering in your ear. But distractions aside, he was here, prepared, and ready to learn; maybe with a distinct lack of color coded notebooks, but that could be overlooked for now. Studying: it was a new, worthy habit, difficult to fall in to, but easy enough to uphold. And he couldn't say he hated it.

He knew that people would gossip. After all, it wasn't every day that a playboy prince suddenly started skipping out on parties to spend evenings inside a library niche. Some said it was his parents that did it—threatened his future ascension to the throne unless he shaped up a little. Others claimed it was a romantic gesture to impress the so titled "Glinda the Good," of whom he was rumored to join forces with in the Emerald City once he completed the year. A personal favorite was that he was bewitched by Horrible Morrible, and that any troublemaking student would be due to receive the same terrible fate.

But they were wrong. They were all so, so wrong, and if he were any touch more brainless than he already was, he would shout it from the palace balcony for all of Oz to hear.

_But you're not as stupid as you think you are._ He doodled a little on the edge of his paper as he waited for class to begin. _And only one person has ever tried to prove that to you._

Some guy leaned in to comment on some sports match of the night before, but he really wasn't in the mood. He never felt in the mood for anything recently, to be honest. Anything but running away—or, really, running to. To love; to understanding; to purpose.

But this was history class, not philosophy, and the professor rapped impatiently at the podium until the solid majority was staring his way. Fiyero's chatty acquaintance backed into his own seat, thank the Unnamed God, and he pulled out his homework to check alongside the board. It was three-quarters done, which, considering his track record, was pretty good. Besides, he was up until morning anyway, writing some essay and preparing for a test later that day. Leave perfect completion to the green girl; and, if he really searched into it, she probably had her own days of slacking off. True academic success, he learned, was not completing every assignment—it was learning how to hide it when he didn't.

As evidence showed, he was not, by any means, a perfect student. He never would be. As some people—_cough cough_—are born with natural genius, others are destined for other paths. His would be determined in time, he hoped, but until that time came, his goal was to live the path _she_ should have had. And if he sucked at it, well...he couldn't say he didn't try.

He started taking notes once the teacher started harping on whatever subject of the past. He had his favorite quill in hand—Elphaba's quill, actually, that she had been generous enough to trade him one day if he stopped making origami out of her excess note paper. He only wished it gave him her handwriting, too, so his notes would turn out a little more legible—but that was the highest degree of wishful thinking.

The professor then suddenly stopped spewing his monotonous facts; he required some class participation. In question-answer form, of course—boring as hell. _Oh, the things he did for love._

"Now, who knows what catalyzed this historic turning point?"

There was a deafening silence across the lecture hall. He could practically hear the cogs of his mind churning like the infamous Time Dragon Clock; something of this question felt familiar. Like he'd heard the answer before. _What was it? The Big...something or other. No, not Big. The Great. The Great Hunger...the Great Fire—_

He raised his hand. "I think it was the Great Drought."

"Well done, Master Tiggular! Now, as a result of such hardship..."

Fiyero inwardly beamed. So this was why people studied—for that golden feeling of satisfaction at a correct answer. Elphaba was there in his mind's eye, and she was smiling warmly with her emerald lips, shimmering chocolate eyes and waterfall of raven tresses. _You know you're hopeless when she turns into gemstones and food. _But he was too far beyond hope to care anymore; he loved her with every ounce of meaning to the word, and he would do anything to make her proud. And if that came down to writing essays on the drab lives of the deceased Ozian upper class, so be it. _You've become a sappy romantic, dude. But hey—you're happier this way._

"Now, contrary to what you should think, they bore no regrets for the hardships they caused..."

Regret. That was a subject he had some natural ability for. He had so many regrets from that girl's absence—regret that he never admitted his feelings, regret that he never defended her as much as he should have, regret that he could not save her now that the whole world united against her. But if there was one thing he could do in her honor, it was this; to sit here, in her place, and learn what she probably only dreamed she could.

And he vowed that if—no, when—he saw her again, she deserved a high-five for that.


End file.
